


When Gods Persist

by baby_bat_98



Category: Mythology, Norse Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baby_bat_98/pseuds/baby_bat_98
Summary: A decade. A century. A millennium. It doesn’t matter. We’ve been here for longer than that. We’ve seen you rise and we’ve seen you fall. Up and down, up and down. You never stop, do you? Well, neither do we. You spoke our names with awe and gave us gifts. You spoke our names with hate and tried to ban us. It didn’t work out as you planed. We’re still here. Behind every corner, in every city, in every country. You don’t notice. How little you see. You’re not alone in adapting to change. We did too. Our values are still here. We will remain as long as they do. New decade, new century, new millennia. What difference does it make? Time never mattered to Gods anyway.-OR-A mythology nerd, a tumblr post, and a persistent plot bunny coming together. A take on how the old Gods and Goddesses have adapted to our modern world. Mentions of mature themes.





	1. Once Upon A Time...

Once upon a time. A lot of stories begin that way. In a forgotten time, a forgotten land, a forgotten life. No one knows when, where, how. Just that it was a long, long time ago and far, far away. Our stories too. But what happens when it isn't? When once upon a time wasn't quite so long ago, and not quite so far away? When the stories of old becomes the stories of today? When we're no longer out of reach, but just at the end of your fingertips? Tell me, my friends, what happens when we're no longer fairy tales? What happens after the end?

For that's the first thing with stories. They all have an end. But the characters, the _people,_ they keep on going. Existing. Adapting. _Living._ We don't run out of life just because you run out of paper to write it on. There's more, will always be more. Hundreds and thousands of years worth of stories. Of smiles and laughter and cries and pain. Of traveling and staying. Of birth and death. Of friends and enemies. Of richness and poverty. Of nothing, of everything. _Of life!_

For that's the second thing with stories. They don't sit nicely on a shelf and wait for you to read them. They don't rest quietly in your heads and wait for you to tell them. No. Stories are moving, bubbling, writhing, simmering, fighting beings. Just as alive as you and we. They're some of the most powerful things in existence. They're filled, overflowing with knowledge and wisdom of all kinds imaginable. And they demand to be told. Why do you think writers write? Painters paint? Singers sing? Dancers dance? That's their stories. Demanding to be told, through any means possible.

So let us not linger any more. Look around for a second. Our current location is boring. There's much more interesting happenings ahead of us. Come with me, on a journey, an adventure. Let's travel without leaving. Let me tell you how old became new, of what happened after the end. For this is it. This is our story. Our Once Upon A Time...


	2. Norse

So here we are. Our first Once Upon A Time. Close your eyes. What's that smell? Is the air heavy, filled with pollen and the feeling of new life? Or is it filled with pine and fir, with the evergreens battling the leaves for the light? Maybe it's moist with rain, crackling with the promise of a thunderstorm? Or perhaps it's clear, fresh, and so cold it burns your lungs?

And what's that sound? Is it birds and mammals of the forest filling every nook and cranny with their songs, deafening in their hunt to bond and create? Perhaps it's calm, only twigs snapping and breeze blowing and mosquitoes buzzing? Is it rustling with leaves falling? Or is the silence a deafening blanket, broken by nothing but the crunching of snow under our feet?

If we had something to eat, what taste would rest upon your tongue? Would it be sparse, barely bearable after having eaten the same for months? Would it be a feast with fresh meat, fresh fish, and freshly baked bread? Would there be apples and berries and nuts, some eaten and some stored? Would it be savored as the last fresh meal in months, before darkness takes the lands?

And if you open your eyes again, what do you see? Are the trees dressed in nothing but buds, grass mixed with all the colours of spring? Are there a thousand shades of green in a forest, glowing in the summer sun that doesn't want to set? Is the world on fire around you, orange and read and yellow against a grey sky? Or is it like an old photo, black and white as far as the eye can see in a world where the sun doesn't want to rise? Can you feel the breeze, the sun upon your face, the rain wetting your hair, or the cold turning your nose red?

And if you feel even deeper, feel with your senses and your heart, what's there? What does the trees, air, ground itself, have to tell you? Do you hear the drums, the old song echo through time? Can you hear the fire crackling, see the flames dance, feel the heat upon your skin, and the smoke in your nose? Can you feel the footsteps of the thousands of people who has walked, danced, stood where you stand? Vibrations through the ground from a forgotten time. The heartbeats of the land itself. Can you feel it? The stories it has to tell? Of berserks striking fear in their enemies. Of long ships leaving shore, dragon heads cutting across the waves. Of the ships returning with silver and gold. Of falling in love. Of summer games of the body. Of winter games of the mind. Of humans and dwarfs and elves and trolls and giants. Of Aesir and Vanir. Of us. Well, I think it's time we give it some new tales to tell. Don't you? So let us see what the Old Ones are up to nowadays...


	3. Norse - Odin

Every neighbourhood has one. That one person who’s eccentric enough to be called ‘weird’ when your parents aren’t hearing, but not weird enough to be a complete freak show. But you think this one takes the cake. He looks just old enough to be called elderly, but if there ever was a prime example of ‘aging well’ he’s it. His hair is silver and there’s wrinkles on his face, but beneath the skin muscles wriggles like snakes. His hands are rough, marked by time where they rest on his cane but still nimble as the birds he keeps as company. The skin where one eye should be is smooth, long lost and long healed. But its surviving twin is unmatched, an icy blue staring into your soul. One-eyed and old as he may be, he never misses a thing. His knowledge seems endless, flowing like a river. There’s not a question he can’t answer, not a riddle he can’t solve.

When the neighbourhood gathers he’s there, but he stays away from the adults. Says children and teens still has enough common sense to believe. He shows them plants and animals, teaches them what you can eat and what you can’t. He helps them climb trees and rocks, tells them where to put their feet. He teaches them to read and write, patient as they stumble through page after page. He tells them stories, adventures and sagas that makes their eyes shine like the night sky. He reawakens curiosity in the older ones and keeps it rooted in the younger. He answers any question they throw at him, with a glint in his eye and a smile on his lips.

And when the curiosity falters, when the words “to hard” float through the air, he reminds them that knowledge is won through pain. He shows the scar in his side, the permanent rope burns around his ankles. He points to where his eye should be and tells them there is no easy way. People risked their lives for what can now be read in books, and he tells those stories. If it’s interesting, that’s great. If it’s not, it’s still knowledge. And knowledge is never wasted.

He seems like a nice man. Just don’t cross him or the ones he considers his followers. He won’t let you get away with it. Today, tomorrow, in 10 years’ time. His revenge will come. Perhaps in some roundabout way, but it will. He’ll look at you, staring into your core, and promise you this.

He’s a restless man. You can see in in early mornings and late evenings. He takes long walks along the street. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a wolf in a cage. Feels even more fitting when you see the grey dogs walking beside him. At those times, you’re sure they can’t be anything but wolves. His ravens are there to, perched on his shoulders. But they’re gone as often as they’re there. You don’t know what they do during their flights, but you swear the old man can talk to them. When he sits on a park bench, the cane that looks more like a staff across his lap and a bird on each shoulder. Sometimes he catches you looking. When that happens he smiles. And with his one, piercing eye, he winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aesthetics made by http://briar-rose-aesthetics.tumblr.com/


	4. Norse - Thor

__

He’s big. If masculinity was a person, they would most likely look like that. Muscles and height and strength. He has fire flowing around his head, down his back in the shape of a braid. His beard is braided as well, metal beads shimmering. Someone made fun if is once. Called it girly and asked how he could let his wife do such a thing. He did not laugh at the dentist bill afterwards. Insult him and you’re in trouble. Insult his wife and you’re dead.

He’s got a temperament like nothing you’ve ever seen before. He’s loud, louder still after a beer or two. Or twenty. Eats and drinks for five at least. He doesn’t care much for maths or science, but there’s not a tool on this planet that he can’t use. He assembles IKEA furniture without instructions. Because he knows the pieces, knows the materials, knows the trade. Not that much in their home is bought. What good would that do, when he handles his anger by crafting? There’s not much out there for him to kill anymore. He still has them though. The belt that makes one stronger the tighter one pulls it. It doesn’t look like much, but he rarely takes it off. The gloves that allow him to swing his hammer properly. They’re disguised. Looks like they’re simple, fingerless, made of leather. He rarely takes them off. And the hammer itself. It’s shrunken down as usual, hanging around his neck. He never takes it off. Ever. Walking, bathing, in bed with his wife. He hasn’t let it out of sight since that dreadful day. As said, there’s not much left to kill anymore. But you never know, the day might come when he needs it again.

His goats are still there too, loyal as always. He made sure to get a small farm, away from the city’s sounds and smells. They have it good there, eating grass all summer. He keeps on joking that they’re getting to fat. They don’t travel together much. There’s no need for it. But sometimes when thunder rolls in, natural thunder and not the one he causes, they dust of the old carriage. It’s a rare kind of freedom, to feel the wind in hair and wool, electricity crackling all around. There’s nothing left to do anymore. He’s restless and he hates it. He’s thunder and lightning and power with nowhere to go, no outlet. It’s hard on him. Wears him down. He has bad days. Those days he’s quiet, gone in thoughts. He stuck in his workshop, making more furniture than they’ll ever need. But then comes the good days. When he’s joking and smiling and his laughter booms like the thunder he loves. That’s what takes him through the bad parts. For he, more than anyone, knows there’s a sun behind every storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aesthetics made by http://briar-rose-aesthetics.tumblr.com/


	5. Norse - Freyr

He walks among golden fields, his hair and beard the colour of the wheat he guards. He lets his hand glide through the grains and smiles. It’s soon time to harvest. Behind him follows a boar, just big enough to ride on. It’s bristles blend in perfectly with its golden surroundings, making a slight metallic noise as it moves. The movements are ever so slightly mechanical, hard to notice but it’s there. He smiles even wider as it snuffles the earth behind him. He’s been offered a lot for the pig, but he’s had enough with giving away valuable possessions. And this is not just a weapon but his friend. What kind of man would that make him?

They reach the path separating two patches of land and he sprints. He’s going full speed all the way, but it’s not quick enough. The boar is still waiting for him as he collapses on top of the hill. He swears the damn thing’s laughing at him. He’s laughing too, as soon as he can draw a breath deep enough for it. He then sits up, looking out over the land he calls his own. To his right there’s a sea of gold, soon done for reaping. To his left there’s green, spotted with cows and horses and sheep. It’s been a good year, and the hoards are plentiful. And if he looks closely, he can just make out the blue of the river. It slithers through his land, all the way to the ocean. He knows this, for he has sailed back and forth along it ‘till he lost count.

He looks up at the sky. The sun stands high, and soon there’ll be food ready at home. He throws himself up on the boars back and they’re of. Across the sky like a golden arrow until they land outside the house. The walk that had taken him the better part of the morning on foot, flown in seconds. They walk side by side, up the porch and through the open door. He stops for a second, looking at the runes in the door frame. Some of them are getting worn, he’ll need to fix that soon. In the hallway he stops again, staring at the sword on the wall. It’s behind glass nowadays, so close but still so far away. It’s been years since he held it.

Eventually the smell of food beckons him out into the kitchen. There waits the woman he gave up his sword for. She’s as beautiful as the day he saw her, and he hasn’t regretted a single second of their time together. Their marriage has had its bumps, though it’s a good one. She’s stubborn as a mule and he’s head over heals in love. But they make it work. They always make it work. Years of knowing each other’s has made things easier. And as they sit down to eat, and she laughs at whatever joke he makes today, he dares dream. Hope, for just a moment, that now she loves him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aesthetics made by http://briar-rose-aesthetics.tumblr.com/


	6. Norse - Loki

The one who looks like a man most of the time. But sometimes, you’re not so sure. His eyes are dark, molten gold that always shimmer even with no light around. The strange scars along his lips are not much lighter than his skin. He’s pale you see, a north man. The smirk’s permanent on his face. His hair reaches his shoulders and is as golden as his eyes. There’s feathers and pearls and braids in there. They make soft sounds when he walks, yet you never hear him coming.

When trouble arises he’s there, as sure as sunrise in summer. More often than not he’s got a part in it. But there’s never any evidence, he never gets caught. Even though everyone knows, they just can’t prove it. He’s a blast at parties though. Always a witty comment or a story with that silver tongue of his. Sometimes you swear you can even see the metallic shimmer of it behind his teeth. His laugh is church bells, but there’s something underneath. Rough, like a cat scratching at your skin. His voice is smooth as silk, flowing like the wine in his cup. Could charm money out of a rock. Perhaps more impressive, it catches him the attention of children. How could he not, when he’s the personification of mischief? His stories spellbind them, his games enchant them, and he never tires of giving out answers. And, of course, who could forget?

“Where did you learn that language‽”

He drinks and drinks and drinks, but never loses control. He creates chaos, but also stands above it. He’s a calm island in a stormy ocean and he knows it, relishes in it, loves it.

He sleeps around a lot, doesn’t care with whom. Man, woman, one, twenty, doesn’t matter. He’s a good lover though. Makes sure everyone enjoys it. Never forces anyone. Sometimes you think he’s a good man and he laughs and says no. A respectful man, a polite man. A man who follows the rules, never mind if they happened to be his own. But not good, never good. You can see what he means sometimes. When someone steps out of line.

“Come on, slut. You’ll enjoy it.”

Silk turns to steel, wine freezes in sharp icicles. He’s a blade now, a weapon. You’re sure you’ll get cut if you stand to close. He’s purring when he calls upon their attention. No one wants to hear that voice in their ear. If trouble had a sound, they call it. If you’re lucky you’ll end up at the hospital after a prank. If you’re not, you’re dead. The skunk at the homophobic principal’s office. The girl who cheated and her broken bone. The rapist who died in a freak accident involving a deer, a truck, and a ridiculous amount of chickens. They all know it was him, but they can’t prove it. He didn’t get nicknamed the Trickster for nothing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aesthetics made by http://briar-rose-aesthetics.tumblr.com/


	7. Norse - Freyja

There’s people everywhere. They’re talking, laughing, some even dancing. Every skin, hair, and eye colour, body shape and gender seems to be found. They’re dress in everything, from baggy jeans and hoodies to leather and fur, from flowing robes to scarves that barely cover anything. You feel a hand on your shoulder. As you look, there’s a woman next to you. She’s tall, towering over most people there. The sides of her head are crew cut, but down her back honey coloured curls fall freely. Midsummer flowers and falcon feathers are strewn through it like stars. Her pale skin looks glowing in the sunset rays. A bright red skirt flows down to her knees, and a matching scarf is wrapped around her torso. They’re both lined with multicoloured ribbons. Tattoos slither around her arms and legs, along with a boar and a pair of the biggest cat’s you’ve ever seen. A golden necklace hangs heavy around her neck.

“Welcome.”

Honey voice to match her hair. Her smile sends shivers down your spine. You can’t decide if they’re from fear or passion. Maybe both. She takes you to a man with golden hair and a silver bell laugh. He paints your faces, bickering with her the whole time. When you’re done she pulls you away. It’s time to light the fires. Flames start to eat the pyre, and music fills the air along with the heat. Louder and louder. As the fire dance higher and higher, the people around you join it. Round and round it goes. Round the small fires spread all over, and round the massive one in the middle. The flames must lick the sky fifteen meters up at least. And she’s the centre of attention. She seems to be everywhere. Dancing with the face painting man, talking to a one-eyed elder of to the side, singing, drinking, wrestling, laughing, making love. And you join her. How could you not? The air is vibrating, crackling like a thunder storm. But the sky is bare. The earth is pulsating with the beat of the drums, and the people dancing to them. You see the sun barely kiss the horizon before rising again. You laugh with a woman you swear has a tail poking out from her skirt, and another with hooves doing the same. You dance to a man drenched in water, seaweed hanging of his fiddle. And you time and time again find yourself in the hands of her. The energy, _the magic,_ seem to roll of her in waves. Her bare feet leaves a trail of flowers in the grass as they take her around the feast. Then you hear the commotion. A girls cries and heated voices. You only catch pieces of the words, but it’s enough. Apparently, some asshole didn’t back of when told no. As you draw closer, you can see them. The girl is being comforted by two older women. The asshole, a man with scales on his arms, is arguing with the face painter. The scaled one grabs his opponents’ shirt and the ground starts to rumble. The honey haired woman is making her way towards the scene. The cats leave her side to comfort the still crying girl. Meanwhile their mistress stands herself in front of the offender. Her eyes are glowing, and the earth rumbles on.

“Leave.”

Gone is the honey. Her voice reminds you of the buzzing of an angered wasps nest, vibrating with the promise of pain. He opens his mouth, letting out a half-chocked whine. The punch that follows break his nose.

_“Leave.”_

You can’t remember ever having seen someone run so fast. The ground doesn’t still until he’s disappeared. It doesn’t take long before most are back to dancing. Most. You see her joining the cats to comfort the girl, anger all but gone. She catches you looking and smiles. It’s friendly, but the shivers are back. You are glad she’s not your enemy.


End file.
